Nothing to Lose
by Lady Catkin
Summary: You cannot fear death if you don't care about living. Now it's a dark, twisted battle of broken lives pitting themselves against each other. What will the crescendo be? Can anyone win? Modern, dark, gothic horror. Leroux-ish, AU.
1. A Twisted Life

**A/N: This story is not for the faint hearted or those who are unable to deal with adult themes. **

You do not run when you have nothing to lose, when you don't care about yourself.

So I just _get on with the game._

Then the only thing you have, is the game.

Not that it is a game as such. There will be no winners, but I suppose that depends on your definition of what 'winning' is.

I'm living in a dark world where everything has such little light that I am now nocturnal. I find that when I hear a noise somewhere near me, my ears twitch. It is like some base, deep routed animalistic instinct is driving me and taking over.

I suppose that is the point really. That's the level we are at now.

And I like it.

Let's take stock. Sit back and review my ammunition and my game plan. Let's see where else I can go with this. To go forward, one has to look back, surely?

I'm twenty years old, and for one so young and so barely touched by age, I have little interest in living any further. That was _before_ I had even met _him_.

I wonder if it is his misjudgement that makes him howl with rage? I wonder if that is the reason he carries on with our death dance? His motives are superfluous to the facts though and I do not care.

I had been living with my parents, or rather, my father and his wife, for a number of years in quite a grand house just north of Paris. It was a farm, all working and abundant with different types of life . He was a business man you see, owned a few companies that franchised driving schools in Germany and the UK as well as two haulage firms. We're not French my father and I, but the step mother is.

Ah, I had such hope for her. My mother had died when I was ten from alcohol abuse and it was only then that my father had to take me in. I was rather relieved more than anything that the torture my mother had forced me to endure was over and that I might enjoy some comfort and kindness at the hands of my father and his new wife.

When I'm wrong, I'm wrong I suppose.

As I got older and realised that my childhood dream of a lovely, happy family was just that – a dream, I notice my anger towards my father begin to mount. He made the _choice_ to abandon me with my mother when he walked out. He did not fight for custody of me. He just buggered off and left her to it. He must have been happy to just shake us off.

I was so angry at my mother. All I could see when I slept (and I see it now) was her angry, twisted face, slurring angry insults at me. Her scraggy black hair making an evil mane about her head, giving her the halo of a demon.

"I hate you" she'd drawl "I've always hated you. You look like _him_" and then she'd hit me.

Sometimes I would be woken up in the middle of the night by her literally throwing herself on top of me in the darkness, punching me through the covers.

Then in the morning she would herd me off to school, all beautifully turned out. I was her precious little punch bag and she had no intention of letting people take me off her. She was quite clever for a sadistic drunk.

Then she died. I was still at school and a gentle voiced teacher (the one who would tell me to go and see the headmaster about 'what I had just done' all the time) who had taught me the previous year, came into my classroom and asked to speak to me in private.

All eyes were on me.

Then... police, social workers, care, courts and then my father. He showed up, eventually, all apologies and excuses. He'd been away, unreachable apparently (conveniently). Hurricanes and delayed flights back from a business conference in the states. Hadn't heard until now.

It had been two months.

But I was a child. I still had a shred of joy and love and hope left inside me. I wanted to believe him and I wanted him to wrap me up in his strong warm arms and magic me away from it all.

In a manner of speaking, he did.

He had just remarried six months before (I was not invited: "it'll upset your mother if you go love, sorry, we'll save you some cake, promise") to a French woman who was the former wife of one of his business partners who had died six months before the wedding.

I had dreamed of a beautiful princess-like chateau in the middle of nowhere, but that nowhere was a vast, deep forest, swarming with the most beautiful wildlife. In the distance where blue topped mountains shrouded in a hazy purple mist and every morning, I would run onto my balcony and breath in wonder as the golden sun kissed the tops of the trees and the distant peaks.

Instead, my tiny bedroom at the back of the huge, square house had plaster hanging off the walls and mould growing in thick black clumps round the window sill.

I remember it was so cold and feeling so cold. I remember hugging my legs and feeling sorry about different parts of myself and wanting to comfort them, as though they were people. I was made to learn the local language by the woman who did the cleaning, a cold, bitter woman who slapped me repeatedly if I spoke English to her. It turned out that her method of teaching me French was just leaving me to figure it out and whacking me brutally until I got it right.

I'd describe her further, flesh her out for you, give you her name and her motivations. But I don't care. I hope she's burning in hell.

I went on to the nearby school and was bullied mercilessly for being British and stumbling over every word.

The teachers would even go as far as sitting there and laughing at the other children as they made fun of me in class and pushed me over at break times. I tried _so hard_ to fit in. I tried so very _hard._ I did everything I could think of doing and it did not work.

I remember walking home from school one night and a gang of them set about me. They beat me until I could no longer stand and then covered my hair in half chewed sweets and ice cream.

I sat there, so miserable and broken that day. I was too afraid to go home because the reaction would be horrendous and I would be blamed for 'bringing it on' myself. I just wanted to die then and there. There was no hope of joy to be had. I think I realised then, that my awful mother had gotten the better deal, she was dead and was never going to suffer again. It was a bit of shame for me.

Oh eventually the Police found me and escorted me home and man handled me through the door, much to the embarrassment (and therefore rage) of my step mother.

It is fair to say, my miserable lot did not improve from there on in.

Should I bore you further with my tales of dramatic escapes and self harm and suicide attempts that followed? Should I try and elicit some feelings of pity and gut-wrenching sympathy from you by going on? No. What's the point. I don't care, so neither should you.

I am just a light about to burn out. I am just nothing. A dot, a drip, a fleeting impression.

Then along came a spider into the mix who thought they could change me, tame me, bend me to their will. I am very sure he thought he was something magnificent. Someone who life had been so terribly (awwwwww) cruel to and therefore doling it out onto others was no problem. Laughable.

My biggest problem I found was pointing this out to him.

I did try, a little I think.

I gave him the worst news when we first met.

I simply said "Hello, I'm Christine and I really, really don't care mate".


	2. The End is Nigh

It's a savage and putrid story so far, my life.

He didn't know that. If there was much in the way of humanity left within me, I suppose I would have felt some pity for him.

I digress to the present when I should stick to the past. Fill you in. Get you up to speed.

I left school with no qualifications, mainly due to the time I had to have off, and stayed on at the house.

My father allowed me to work in the fields ("good life experience Christine, that is" he'd said), helping collect their pointless vegetables that they grew to help support their little farming dream. To say the work was hard and squalid is an understatement. I wasn't even aware that people still worked like that this side of the nineteenth century.

I spent my days covered in mud and being battered by the cold, relentless rain that pummelled me tirelessly.

It gnarled my broken heart and soul just that bit more I think. If I wasn't so angry with my lot, I would have sobbed away at night and been all meek like a little lamb. Perhaps that would have been the person I would have been should all the other terrible things that took place in my life not have happened.

I know what you are thinking. You think that sure, people have been through similar or worse and come out the other side good, caring people. I'm not saying I'm not a good person, I'm just saying I'm a _broken_ person. Besides, you don't think that that was it do you? Seriously, you don't think a boo-hoo sob story about a harsh childhood and a bit of labour was enough do you?

No. There was more. Much more than that went into creating the me I am now. I am not the Christine that nature had intended by any stretch.

My soul was painted black throughout my teens. My ragingly hard, miserable teens.

Turns out, I was quite good looking, not that I either cared or noticed. The problem was, others did notice and decided that hey, what the hell, we'll take what we want. Read into that what you will. I don't want to talk about it.

I think I'm too far over the other side to care, especially now.

I really don't think he gets it though. Here I am in the present (keep up, you'll have to with me). He wanted a victim, someone like him who had suffered at the hands of a cruel, cruel world.

I had stopped being a victim a long time ago and decided that I would not only go into that good night, but rage my way into its eternal abyss. Am I not making sense now? I haven't slept or eaten for days. I don't really know about the passing of time anymore as there are no windows here.

No, let's stick to the past. Let me paint the walls of your mind with luminous images to help you see my story. I don't care if you understand it or even _feel_ it. I just want to bat things about your head.

It was after the last suicide attempt that I met him. It was completely by design and I knew it straight away. I think other girls in my position would be so overwhelmed by the romance and the fear of it all that they wouldn't notice the subtleties.

I was still in hospital and it was night. I lay in the black room, staring at the barely visibly ceiling and going over in my mind what went wrong and cursing myself for not getting the job done right. Again, if I had an ounce of humanity left, I would have been a sobbing wretch, keening and balling about my entire predicament. I was just stoked that I had failed.

The door to my private side room opened (they like to keep the loony suicide attempts out of general view it would appear, although the logic of sticking someone out of constant view after trying to take their own life did escape me). The greenish glare of the hallway light cast a slab of ugly light across my eyes, making me scowl at the interruption.

I turned my head, intrigued as to why no-one had entered the room.

"Get in, do your checks and be damned" I growled.

No answer, no movement.

"For godsake – " I began and saw nothing but a great, shadowy, hulking _thing_ in my doorway.

I squinted my eyes to get a better view. Why was the light still coming in so strong, as though there was no one there? But then again, I didn't care.

"Right, leave or I'll scream, pick a frigging option buddy" I said, a dangerous smile playing on my cracked lips.

"_Christine"_ a gentle whisper of a voice said, somewhere on the other side of my head. This was enough to get me sat up.

"I see, we're one of those freaks are we" I said confidently "Sorry, listen mate, I'm sure you try that voice-throwing thing on the girls all the time to make them shiver with delight, but that isn't going to happen with me" I continued flatly.

I proceeded to swing my legs out of the bed and walk to the foot where my notes hung on a clipboard. I picked them up and turned to hand them to the man-like bulk that was stood in my doorway.

He or it was gone.

I put the notes back, disappointed I couldn't show him what I was in for. I think part of me is still a bit disappointed now. He could have known what he was letting himself in for.

I got back into bed and made a conscious decision to sleep. Sleep often evaded me; I had learnt over the years to never sleep at night, simply to take naps sat upright and usually with some sort of weapon in my hand.

The next morning, the porters wandered in, they didn't look at me or talk to me. They just fussed about the room. I had dressed and packed before the first nurse of the morning shift had come in. I didn't bother to turn and look at her. She was not important.

I remember turning and asking her if I could sign myself out and got no reply. I remember I just shrugged as she wrote on my notes furiously, a sad expression on her face and I walked past her and out the door.

I didn't care about signing the papers. They could forward them to my father, like he'd give a damn.

The important thing was, at last, I was free.

I'd obviously had a serious crack at my more recent attempt on my life because I'd ended up in hospital. This was a treat in many ways as it meant I had the ability to just stroll out now.

I had often wondered why my father and his dear, pink, precious little wife didn't just kick me out. Reputation I had always mused. My mother had the same problem. She liked playing the victim too much that she couldn't bear to be usurped by someone who actually _was _a victim.

I strolled along the wide, clean smelling and brightly lit corridors of the hospital until I found a sign that pointed towards the lifts and exits. It was an arduous stroll through an unfamiliar city I found after my liberation, but it didn't matter.

I had no money, just the clothes I was in and a few random toiletries. I still to this day have no idea why I took them with me, it wasn't like I was that bothered about personal hygiene.

There was no plan I remember, I just walked. I decided to see how long my poor frail little frame could walk for until I was utterly spent. I had no food, no drink. I just decided to head south out of the city and keep going. Why not? There was no other plan.

Paris, now that should turn the head of any 20 year old girl, but not this one. I was so hopelessly detached from humanity that I could have been walking through Roman Chester and not cared. I just walked, striding along in my dirty jeans and worn t-shit with a flimsy blue jacket over the top offering little protection from the elements.

My long blonde hair was tied back in a bun at the nape of my neck. Not that that detail is important. I think I got into this bit for expositional reasons. I think a physical description has been wanting and waning to get in here. My subconscious mind willing me to be a bit more human still.

Should I tell you what I look like? Would you care? Would it make your enjoyment of this twisted tale more fulfilling? Really? Well it's not great being you right now then is it as I just couldn't care less.

I remember that I got as far as a row of small shops along a parade. They were selling pastries, bread, fish and clothes. All of them bustling about and bursting with life. I past by them like a shadow.

I passed a small book shop when the van appeared. It was a small, black van with blacked out windows. I only looked up because it had pulled along side me and was going along at the same pace as me.

I glanced at it and sneered, then kept my head down, and paced quicker, avoiding the throng of people who pushed past me.

Yet the van kept up with me.

Eventually I stopped and turned. As soon as I did, the van stopped.

I approached the passenger window and squinted to try and see inside, but failed to see anything. I rapped on the passenger window and yelled "What do you want? Go pester some other sad act", but it produced no reaction.

I stood there for a moment longer, waiting for something to happen from inside and was disappointed.

I shrugged emphatically through the window and carried on walking.

The van started to move and keep up with me.

I stopped again and this time shouted through the window "right, get whatever sick little game your playing off the ground so we can all move on with our lives you sad sack of shit".

With that, the door slid open slowly but even that didn't prepare me.

I glanced to the side, in the direction of the door on the side of the vehicle, but the hands were quick.

I was launched off my feet and into the darkness within the van in a matter of milliseconds.

I couldn't see anything, like I was down a coal mine.

Bony, icy hands where holding me down and hollow, raspy voices speaking too quickly in a language I could not understand rattled on above and about me.

I relaxed.

So, someone was going to do the damned job for me. Great.

I just remember hoping they'd get it over and done with already.


	3. A Strange Meeting

And I woke up.

There on a filthy cold stone floor bathed in a sickly green glow - emanating from the right.

I had been dragged and dumped, I figured, by the sharp stabbing pains throbbing in the backs of my legs and the sticky sensation of blood.

'_Oh well_ 'I supposed as I lay there '_at least I'm going to die in an interesting way, way more interesting than my pointless life ever was'_.

I widened by eyes and sat up slowly, taking in my new surroundings.

'_Oh yes – very gothic'_ I considered inwardly, casting a bored eye over the small dank room. I was next to the far wall and next to me was another wall that jutted out towards the centre of the room, making it an 'L' shape.

In the centre of the room was a fireplace that had an arched, flat mantle that lay close to the floor, a bit like a small baker's oven.

The fire inside the grate was lit, but instead of the usual yellow and orange flames, green flames licked outwards and produced no heat.

I remember thinking '_stupid special effect waste of time, I suppose I'm meant to be amazed or scared or something. Whatever' _and then carried on muttering about it under my breath accordingly.

I stood up slowly as my bones and muscles cracked and griped their objections.

I had always thought that pain was there to let you know there was something wrong and at the same time, remind you that you were still alive. These were the two reasons I disliked pain. Not the usual way people thought about it, I'm sure. They yell out at the sensation of it, frankly, that did not bother me in the slightest, I'd been in pain my whole life. The only difference was, was that someone else would come along and make it worse from time to time.

I walked across the room, past the creepy green flamed fireplace and to a door in the far right hand corner. It was a lumbering, wooden affair, straight out of a horror film, with its great wooden slats and huge, heavy ringed handle. I tugged at the handle, half expecting it to be locked, but to my bemusement the door gave and I swung it open. It even had a clichéd squeak as its hinges objected to the motion.

Before me was an unlit staircase, only the first two or three steps lit by the glow coming from behind me. I shrugged. If I fell to my death, then that would be fine by me.

I instinctively put out my left hand, where the stone wall was and marched down the twisting steps into utter blackness.

I've gone into detail there haven't I? And you know what? It's because I really liked that room. Throughout all my time here, I have never once found it again. I would love to see it once more, get up those stairs and into the room with the green fire fireplace.

He might not find me there.

And that would not make him happy in the least.

Good.

I'm now at the bottom of these damn stairs in my head whilst I'm telling you all this, so you better keep up with me.

I fumble about in the pitch black, looking for a door or another set of steps, but found myself in what appeared to be a very short corridor of no more than maybe four or five feet long. I found my way back to the steps I had come from, satisfied that I had felt every little stone in the walls to ascertain that there wasn't an exit. I promptly sat down on the bottom step.

Was this how I was to die? Being walled in? An oubliette?

'_Wonderful. Oh well, such is death I suppose.'_

Then I remember thinking that there was something wrong and I sat up straight with a feeling of mild confusion. The steps I was now sat on where carpeted and quite lushly too from the feel of it. I had walked down solid stone steps, I knew that.

I turned round in the blackness and felt the other steps behind me – yes, all carpeted.

Confused but intrigued, I began walking back up them again. Unlike the ones I had just descended, these were straight, like a stair case in a house. The others had twisted like those in a tower.

At the top of the steps I found a new door, a white one, made of white painted wood. I could see slightly better there because of a thin slither of light, that same greenish light, coming from between the door and the floor.

I took the handle and walked straight in.

Then there he was, just sat there in that ridiculously elaborate room that looked like something from a Jane Austen adaptation. He was sat on an extraordinarily delicate white sofa in front of a high fireplace, which exhibited the same strange green fire.

How should I describe him? Do you want me to? I'm not sure I want to. It'd be like I was trying to make him sound like he matters, wouldn't it and I can't have that. I don't like the idea of giving him any impression, especially the wrong one.

I suppose it's fair to say he's stark-staring mad. I mean, wouldn't he have to be? For all of this? There's me getting way ahead of myself and zapping you by magic to the present. I'm assuming you know everything and you don't and the idea is to go over things and reassess. That includes _him._

I'll give it my best then.

I looked at him for a moment, he was sat over to my right as I walked in, he was sat, very still, just looking into the flames.

With better things on my mind, and being someone who was not easily intimidated or surprised, I walked over to him, standing between him and the fire.

He looked up at me and... I can't describe the look in his eyes or on his face for you, because I couldn't see it. He wore a great silly black mask that covered his entire face. It reminded me of one of those mask's actor's used in Greek plays.

I could see his eyes shining from behind small slits, but that was it.

"Right" I began, folding my arms "Let's get it over with shall we? Because either way it is going to be over with as soon as possible. You can either kill me now, or I can starve myself to death. Either way works for me" I hammered home. I left him with little room for confusion about my meaning.

"Christine" he said, his voice was soft and heavy like velvet "I love you".

Naturally, I instantly fell about laughing.

"You cannot be serious!" I eventually managed, wiping tears of mirth away from my cheeks.

"Deadly" he replied evenly.

"That is just priceless!" I laughed and held my sides as they hurt from my exertions "you crack me up mate, which is kind of ironic isn't it, considering you obviously are!"

I laughed for a while longer until after a few deep breaths I regained my composure.

"This house has never heard the sound of laughter before, you bring with you such joy" he breathed.

"Whatever, nut-job" I said, vastly more serious in tone now.

I cast my eye around the elegant room and that was when I noticed the windows. They were there, sort of. There were recesses for them and window seats below them, but the glass was missing. Instead, there were wooden boards covering the whole length of where they should be.

I glanced back at him, but he was no longer sat, but had stood and moved a good foot closer to me. I instinctively jumped. How the hell had he moved so quickly without me even noticing? I missed a beat and I cursed myself for it.

"You cannot die, my darling. You are with me now and with me you shall always be" he said, but despite being to my right, the voice seemed to come from left shoulder. I turned to look, then looked back. He was gone.

I looked back to me left and there he was. I had to admit, his theatrics had caught me off guard and I stood there like a complete idiot just staring at this masked nutter who could zip about the room like some frigging pixie.

"So you can move quickly. Wonderful. That must really be a talking point at dinner parties, or let me guess, you don't go to any because you're a freak. So you've kidnapped me for a bit of company? Oh, right, well, I've got some bad news for you then. I'm not great company. Nor do I give a rats-backside about anything you _want_" I railed at him, but I wasn't done yet.

"What's up? Mummy didn't love you? People were mean? Oh diddums. I don't care. Man up freak-show and you can start by showing me the door" I finished angrily.

He cocked his head to one side and I swear I saw humour in his eyes.

"Not a problem my darling" he said in that damnably calm, smooth voice. He stepped backwards all the way to the door that I had just come through and then gestured towards it with a long bony hand.

"Here is the door and you may leave through it now if you so wish" he said.

"Are you trying to be funny mate? Because I don't care how mental you are, I'll knock your chuffing block off if you are!" I growled.

I was vastly annoyed at that point and it makes me smile now as I tell you about it; I had no idea then about anything here and how things would 'progress' between me and him.

I stomped heavily over to the door and yanked it open, expecting to see the carpeted stairs I had just come up.

Instead and to my utter shock, I found myself looking out at a dark, shale covered shore and lapping at its edge was a dark pool of water that stretched out into an infinite night. Mist hovered over in the distance, which for me was not far away as I could barely see.

I boldly stepped out, my trainers making the tiny bits of flat rock click and crunch as I moved.

"Well this is different" I began, for once, lost for words.

"You wanted the exit my sweet" he said, but this time I could definitely hear sarcasm drizzling each syllable.

"Is this some sort of a joke?" I began, turning to face him with a look of utter annoyance on my face.

"No" he simply stated "This is the only way in and out. You are welcome to try and escape as many times as you like until you find it fruitless. You cannot ever leave here, my love". He did that irritating thing were he cocked his head to one side, as if he was trying to examine me in a different way.

"And escape to what? You think I want to run away? Seriously. I'm just annoyed that you haven't bothered killing me already, save me the job. So get the hell on with it" I sneered back at him.

"I would never harm you my darling Christine" he said gently, then turned and went back in through the door.

"Nutter" I muttered under my breath.

I took the opportunity to take in this new environment.

The shore of this lake lead up to a heavy, arched wooden door, not dissimilar to the one I had left through when I had awoke. The building in front of me was odd to say the least. It reached high into the shadowy abyss that seemed to strangle every non-viewable space. It was an oppressive darkness, the sort that made you _want_ to go inside and seek warmth and light.

The height I could not ascertain, but the width, I could. The house reached out quite surprisingly far either side and I walked the length of it. The windows were bricked up from the outside too and the partially viewable second and third floors above me had the same done to their windows. It was like a strange sort of house on an underground lake or sea. Everything seemed to be in permanent, oppressing night.

The material that the house was looked like it was made from possibly granite. Some hard, glittering rock that looked like it would still stand after three nuclear holocausts.

The outside was not terribly ornate at all and just resembled, for me, a bank. Everything was angular – the windows and the only door. Nothing was pretty or aesthetically pleasing.

'_Mind you'_ I thought, '_if it's meant to be a house underground, then it's never exactly meant to be pretty. It's meant to be practical'_.

I tried to get round the sides of the house, so see how far it went back, but I couldn't. The shore finished at the edges of the building and the water touched the walls. Grumbling and muttering under my breath, I shoved my hands in my pockets and stalked inside.

Me and Weirdo were going to have to have a chat.


	4. Not Very Helpful

I didn't like this weird house.

To be honest, I still don't and I've been here for a while now.

I walked back through the door and this time was not in front of the set of stairs that would lead to the white room we'd come from. I was instead inside a long, dimly lit corridor that seemed to carry on for some length. So far away was the end of it, that the darkness at its conclusion made everything blurred.

'_Right'_ I thought, shaking my head. I walked on after casually kicking the door behind me shut.

The corridor, I thought, and probably do still to be fair, reminded me of a boat. An old boat, like a galleon. It was a perfect rectangle made out of wooden planks, floor to ceiling. It was lit by candles that had been shoved on top of the remnants of other spent candles, making their holders look like molten rumples of livid flesh.

What struck me as odd (not that everything I had witnessed so far wasn't odd) was the fact that there were no visible doors. Considering the length of that corridor, I thought that was just strange. Of course, I now know better.

I just dumbly wandered up this long corridor, idly thinking about how Weirdo was going to kill me.

By the time I reached the small red door at the end, I was torn between slow and painful and quick and easy.

Now pondering on what method he was thinking of using, I reached out to the round brass handle, turned it and entered.

Inside stood Weirdo by the fireplace.

Hang on, I bet you think it's wrong of me to call him 'Weirdo' don't you? Right, well, I had no name for him at that point and given the circumstances, felt it was apt. Still think it suits him to this very day.

Back to the story.

There was, as I've just said, Weirdo stood by the modest looking fireplace, his arm across the mantle and his eyes peering into the flames below. He didn't make any movement when I came in, he just stood there, gazing into the fiery depths.

The flames in this room where not that odd green colour at all, they were red. Dark red, the colour of blood. It would be hard to imagine it if you had never seen such a thing, but unlike the green flames, there was a tremendous heat coming from these. So much so that I kept myself close to the door and considered leaving it open to let some air through.

This room was small and simply furnished.

The floor was the same wooden planks as outside in the corridor, but a well worn red woven rug sat in the centre. There was a dresser in dark wood, a broken bookcase in the same material, with books propping up the broken shelves. There, stood directly to my left and straight ahead, was a couple of easy chairs made from battered red material of some sort.

Oil lamps lit the room from the walls and a candelabra sitting on top of the dresser helped a little.

On top of the mantle, either side of were Weirdo was stood, were too little ebony trinket cases. I took a step closer, away from the door, to peer at them. They caught my attention as they were quite literally the only decorative things in the entire room.

One was easily discernable as a Scorpion, so finely sculpted I wanted to look closer to observe its fine details. The other was an insect of some variety. It looked like a cricket but I have subsequently learnt that it is in fact a Grasshopper.

Weirdo did not move despite the fact I had entered and moved slightly closer to him.

I shrugged behind his back and stood feeling bored for a moment, considering what I should say in order to get this particular show on the road.

I observed him briefly.

A shock of black hair, a mask, long black coat, black suit, black shirt and no tie. He wore dress shoes though, shiny black ones that caught the light.

Not your average murderer or kidnapper, but I figured there was little point in pondering this further. I couldn't have cared less if he was dressed as Mickey Mouse as long as he just got the hell on with it.

I looked round the room again. It appeared to me that, if the white room would have been where you'd film a Jane Austen adaptation, then this would be the room you'd film a poverty stricken Victorian family piece in.

It just sort of had that vibe.

The ceiling was not wooden; I noticed as I sighed audibly and looked upwards. It was made from cracked yellowing plaster, which, as I glanced downwards, so were the walls.

"Come on then" I said eventually, folding my arms across my chest "Let's get it over with".

Still not even a flicker of movement.

I tutted and then stomped over to him and poked him with an index finger, the sort of action you see people do in movies when they want to check that the bad guy truly was dead.

To my surprise, what I touched, wasn't Weirdo. In fact, it wasn't anyone.

I didn't touch flesh as I poked his arm through his long black coat, but instead something hard, like wood or bone.

Feeling faintly confused, I bent down a little and peered at the face, only to see that it was in fact a dummy. I laughed out loud at myself. This was just another trick, an illusion. I supposed that this was the moment were I get lulled into a false sense of security and then... BAM!

"Oh yes, very original" I muttered and poked the head of the dummy in annoyance.

I looked at its hands, resting on the mantelpiece, covered in black leather gloves.

With no other exit visible and nothing better to do, I thought I would mess about with the dummy.

I could not understand what Weirdo hoped to achieve by doing this, nor could I have cared less about his motives. Perhaps I was supposed to be overwhelmed and upset, like a virgin in a horror movie. Needless to say, I wasn't nor was I going to throw myself at his feet and beg for mercy.

I pulled off the gloved and looked at the wonderfully carved hand it revealed underneath. It looked like it had been carved from marble, not just wood. I ran my fingers over it, trying to detect flaws or splinters, but found none.

I dropped the glove to the floor and turned my attention to the mask.

It was tied at the back of the head with black satin ribbon and I went about loosening the knot until I could free it from its head. I looked at it in my hands. It was identical to the one he was wearing. It had a shiny brass interior, which I could not understand how anyone could have found it comfortable to wear. The outside had a shiny black lacquer or possibly jet finished to it and gleamed in the strange glow of the fire place.

I turned it over in my hands and wondered for a moment about what makes a person wonder about wearing one of these and kidnap random girls from the streets of Paris.

Then I thought _'Meh. Don't care.'_

I peered towards the face and only saw the blank white face of a mannequin, the sort you see in trendy clothes shops.

On top of the head was this thick main of black hair, long enough to tuck behind his ears. I didn't for one moment think the actual version on Weirdo's head was his and that he was sporting a syrup. I considered goading him with that right before he kills me.

I was bored now and huffed as I slumped into one of the worn chairs, shuffling to try and get comfortable. Maybe this was my oubliette and he was going to wall me up in here.

I flapped my lips as I let out a big sigh, he better get the hell on with this as I was getting fed up of his games.

I glanced down again at the mask and tried to guess its age. Knowing Weirdo, it probably was Greek.

Out of my peripheral vision I saw a movement in front of me where the dummy was and my eyes shot up in its direction.

My heart just stopped and then thumped so hard I thought I was going to pass out with the fear that suddenly gripped me.

The dummy was moving.

First its head moved upwards, then its arm from the mantle. It wasn't the blank white face I had just looked a moments before, it was wearing a mask. No, not just a mask, the mask I had in my hands. I looked down, my eyes wide in shock, only to see the mask I was holding was white and thin like paper.

How did I not notice the instant swap and change in weight? How had this happened?

My head spun.

It took me a few moments to gather my senses.

"Oh very clever" I said, my bravado admittedly shaken "Ha. Ha." I concluded pointedly.

I swear I could see the mirth behind his mask when he turned to me.

He backed towards the chair opposite me, on the other side of the fire.

"I do not know what you mean, love" he replied simply.

"Whatever" I said, sitting up straight "now, shall we get on with it? You've brought me here for a reason haven't you?"

"Yes" he replied simply.

My heart was still racing and my mind had turned to cursing myself for being so stupid as to be taken in by a silly parlour trick.

"Well..." I urged.

"I have brought you here Christine, because I love you. And because you are mine".

I pulled a face at him.

"I see. So you've been stalking me or something then?" I asked curiously.

"Not exactly" he said, frustratingly not yielding much information.

"So what exactly have you been doing? I couldn't have been much fun to stalk. I barely went to school, or outside my father's farm. Sometimes, I didn't even leave the house. What did you do? Disguise yourself as a hedge or something?" I was laughing cynically at him. I could not for the life of me understand how he could have 'not exactly' stalked me.

He leant his elbows against the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers together.

"I have been in your mind for years" he said quietly, almost reverently.

I laughed at him, full, heavy laughs.

"You kill me, you really do!" I laughed "You've been in my head and you love me. That is just magic that fella. I mean, if I was giving you a psycho rating, it'd definitely be four and a half chainsaws" I said, calming my amusement.

He did not flinch (not that I could tell from behind the mask), he just sat there, his long fingers encased in gloves, still steepled.

"So, seriously, why me? Come on, there has to be more deserving girls out there that need stalking. I don't live an interesting life. I'm not rich or pretty or have any talents. I'm just a farm hand and little else." I said, being more serious at this juncture.

"You are wrong in so many ways and on so many levels, Christine" he said.

"Well come on then. What's the attraction? What makes me so irresistible to the psycho community?" I asked, fiddling with the white paper mask in my hands.

"You are talented, it is just that you have never had the opportunity to bring it out in this life. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known. Ever seen. I love you, because the first time I saw you, I knew I never wished to see another creature again, as you were the embodiment of all that was great and perfect. You have lead an unfortunate life, but not via your own doing. This makes me sad" he said, his words drifting across the room to meet my ears.

"When did you first start to sta- I mean, er, when did you first see me then? Was I on my way to school or something?" I asked, my interest piqued.

"In a manner of speaking you were on your way to school. I taught you to sing" he said.

I pressed my lips together to make one long thin line.

"Sorry Mr Nutcase, you've lost me. I think you and your mates might have nabbed off with the wrong Christine" I smirked.

"No. It is definitely you Christine. I even went to the hospital the night before I came for you, just to be sure".

His words hung in the air and a shiver of nausea for some reason squelched about in my intestines.

"You were that weird _thing_ that turned up at the door to my hospital room?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes" he replied.

"Hmm. So what you're saying is, you went to check that you were about to kidnap the right person and still messed it up? Wow. You can't even do the nutcase thing well can you? Honestly. If I knew I was going to be kidnapped and murdered by an amateur I'd have brought a book" I sneered at him.

He again, frustratingly, did not rise to the bait. He just sat there like he was the mannequin again.

If was I perfectly honest, the whole illusion thing with the coloured flames and the moving rooms was pretty impressive, but I was getting annoyed with his responses. Nothing tallied up and nothing made sense. What was worse, was that he was not giving me anything to go off, just stupid, meaningless twaddle.

I heard him sigh, a gentle sigh that you could easily mistake for a breeze.

"You must understand Christine, that it has been a very long time since we saw each other last. You have changed my dear, but I understand why. We were quite literally different people when we last saw each other, my love. Or rather, you were. I know there are many things that do not make sense, but I will try and ensure that they do. You are spirited and I will enjoy bringing that out in you, despite your rough manners and contemporary speech inflections."

His voice had this sumptuous feel to it. I can't explain it. It was like you could weave a blanket out of it and wrap yourself in it and be comforted forever.

I think my reaction at the time was to laugh in his face.

"Whatever mate, I'd remember if I'd seen a mental-case like you knocking about. Either that or I already know you, hence why you wear the mask. Is that it? Are you some dodgy farm hand or something? Well take it off then, what am I going to do? Run away? No. I'm ready to die, and have no fear of death. So you have nothing to worry about." I said in an even tone.

He cocked his head to one side again and observed me for a moment.

I remember thinking that I'd struck a nerve with that, was he someone I knew?

"You have not seen me for over one hundred years Christine. So no. I am unlikely to be someone from your life away from this place now, am I not?" his voice had a bit more life to it now. I was certainly glad about it. That sort of sing-song coolness to his voice just made him sound more other-worldly. Now he seemed a bit more real during this exchange.

I smiled at him sarcastically, narrowing my eyes.

"Let me guess, you are a phantom, a recluse and you live on the underground lake thing under Paris. I am the reincarnation of your long lost love. Right? I bet you even have portrait of me in your bedroom and your fawn over it daily. Is that right? Have I got it right this time? If so, I'm disappointed" I said, frowning.

He shuffled in his seat for a moment and said nothing.

"Is that it? This whole thing is because you've based your entire psychosis on the plot of a terribly b-movie. Is that it? Seriously? I am bitterly disappointed. I thought you were going to say pixies told you to do it, or God. I mean, that would have been enough for me. Now you're just being plain boring" I huffed again and sat back in my seat, ensuring my arms were tightly folded and a firm scowl was smeared across my face.

"I think you need to be taught a few things, my dearest girl" he said, speaking in a calm, soothing tone that just made me more annoyed.

"Tonight, I will let you sleep on the shore outside the house and you will, by morning, come to understand the way of things. I do not wish to do this to you, my darling, you have to understand. But this modernistic life you have lead has corrupted your beautiful mind. Oh Christine, my love..." and his voice trailed off as though he was fighting with his emotions.

"Just so you know mate, nothing you have said to me so far even remotely makes sense. Nor have your weird little games, so as much as I should be pained to see you upset, I'm not and I could not care less if I tried" I spat at him with venom threaded through my words.

He shook his head at me very slowly and before I could open my mouth to ask what he was doing that for, I felt my eyelids involuntarily close and darkness arrest my being.


	5. Bad Nights Sleep

There was something tugging on the periphery of my conscious mind.

I remember becoming aware of things in stages as I came round – not like in the strange stone room with the green fire I had first encountered. No, this is was something different.

I remember noises first of all, like animalistic growls somewhere off in the far distance, so to my ears, they just resembled thunder from a far away storm.

Then I felt how heavy my body was. It felt like it was made out of concrete and that moving any part of me would be too much. Perhaps that was just the lethargy of coming round, I don't know.

Then I could feel the sharp, jabbing shards jabbing into the flesh of my back like tiny ice picks jabbing into me. I remember thinking, at first, that I was back on my father's farm and I had been made to sleep on the gravel path between the stable and the shed again.

No such luck.

My eyes sprang open as soon as I realised that I could not possibly be back there. I was still in this crazy domain that felt so very much like it had been buried underground like a tomb. It had that sort of hanging, stagnant air, the type you find in rooms that have been locked up for a long time.

I saw nothing, at first, apart from the light.

Should have mentioned that. The light source for outside.

It's really weird, 'weird' now becoming the buzz word for everything that I had encountered so far. It reminded me a bit of stage lighting, just one spot light that seemed to hang in the air, like a tiny sun, outside the building. It hadn't been there before when I was first outside, I was _certain_, but then, nothing was what it seemed around here, including Weirdo.

It lit up the outside of the building, like a lighthouse, and illuminated the shale I was obviously lying on.

"You dumped me outside" I said to myself, morosely "Is this meant to bother me? Seriously? Have a word with yourself. Tosser".

With that I sat up and took in the newly familiar surroundings. Nothing had changed, apart from perhaps the lighting.

Then I remember that the main difference from when I had been out here first, with Weirdo, was that it was so quiet. I didn't even hear the lapping of the water against the shore and I cast my eyes down next to me to where the water met the shore and no, no sound.

But there was noise now.

That building, rumbling clamour that I had first heard was now growing in intensity, to the point that even _I_ shut the hell up to listen to it. I strained my ears, trying to understand what was making that din from somewhere deep within the black gloom beyond.

It was getting closer and the temperature dropped, quite noticeably. I shuffled up onto my feet, the little chips of stone grinding and clicking beneath my weight. I hugged myself instinctively to try to stay warm.

If I'm honest with you, it was more out of comfort – not that it helped me through the horrible days of my late childhood and teens. Now it just seemed like something I did out of habit.

Somehow, I remained fascinated by this guttural snarl that approached and I do remember hoping that Weirdo had finally gotten round to getting the job done by setting some wild animal on me. No such luck though.

In many ways, I think this was probably worse.

As the noise grew closer, I remember getting the feeling that these weren't the noises made by an animal, but a person under extreme torture; the sort of terrible, twisted squeals of exquisite agony that you cannot comprehend until you've either heard them or made them yourself.

I took a step backwards, I felt awkward because this was hitting home. How the hell could he have known how I would scream out in pain when I had been 'punished' back on the farm? Was he demonstrating his 'sort of' stalking?

This could well have been a recording of _me_.

I felt sick.

It grew louder though, louder than any person could make, like someone had cranked up the volume.

Soon it felt like it was almost on top of me, bellowing its terror into my face, making me back up all the way to the front door. I even tried the handle, telling myself that I was going to go in and have it out with him, but when I tried it, it was locked fast.

I closed my eyes, very unlike me, and waited for something to pounce and rip me up.

Instead, I was dumped into silence almost instantly and the noise had dissipated.

This had to be just another one of his tricks to try and throw me off kilter and get the upper hand, I thought hotly. My fear was being rapidly replaced with anger and I boldly stepped forward, yelling into the abyss "Is that all you've got you tosser! Come and bloody have a go to my face you sick git! Come on!"

Then it was as though _something_ had decided to answer on his behalf, the scream began again, accompanied by a whole sick choir of screeches and snarls. I could hear crying, a man's voice begging in French for mercy, a woman's voice in Spanish (I thought) with the same desperate timbre.

It was a wild, whipping torrent of ugly noises that reverberated through me, like I was stood next to a bass speaker in a night club. It jumped and sprang through my body, as well as pouring into my head like hot wax, through my ears.

I clung to the walls of the house, my back next to it, keeping my eyes on the impenetrable depths ahead in case anything wanted to spring out and include me in their broken, desperate song.

I saw things flitter up and down, back and forth, but convinced myself quickly that my eyes where seeing things in the gloom. My brain must have been making shapes up, but I swear I could see arms and legs and even _eyes_ glinting back at me.

The water on the shore was beginning to slosh back and forth like it had a tide, which brought me to the conclusion that there must have been some sort of boat on the lake going past, whipping up the placid water into a small frenzy.

The noise began to fade and the water began to still, all with me still pinned to the wall.

I wasn't sure when I had stopped breathing, but I remember falling to my knees and gasping for air like I had run for miles.

I sat down as soon as I had regained my composure, unable to compute what had just taken place. My rational thoughts told me that it had all been little more than theatrics and illusion, in order for him to scare the hell out of me. Was that it? I recall getting very annoyed with that.

I dropped my head into hands and rubbed hard at the grit in my eyes. I was dreaming and that was just some sort of nightmare, surely?

Hell, even if I wasn't dreaming and this was all real – I wasn't going to break that easily.

I lifted my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, trying very hard to push down the memories of why it was I had made those sounds myself. I hated Weirdo for bringing all that back. I was certainly planning on letting him know that when I saw him next.

I stayed put for a while, until I heard that distant sound again, the one I had heard from when I had first woken.

Then it started all over again.

And again.

And again.

Different sounds, even different languages that I did not understand, but the terror and horror contained within each vocalisation was exactly the same.

I stayed put, sat down with my back against the wall.

Just another thing to resign myself to. If I was going to be dragged off by something on the lake, then they better get the hell on with it and stop wasting my time.

I think, after perhaps the tenth time it happened, I must have fallen asleep as on the drifting edges of my consciousness, I felt myself being moved. I could feel a pair of hands and warm body. I could feel my long yellow hair fall backwards. I could feel the air change against the skin on my face as I was clearly being carried gently away.

Was it Weirdo or the Voices that had taken me?

Right then, I can't say I even cared.

**A/N: I haven't done a note for a bit, not since the first chapter and even that was to act as a warning. I don't beg for reviews – its undignified and I as a writer, take more pleasure in expressing myself publicly than receiving feedback or praise (I do it not for the reward, but for the art, that old chestnut). Sounds harsh, right? Perhaps, but it's your choice and I won't make you feel guilty for not reviewing****. On the other hand, it is of course nice to see that you liked my work enough to write about it.**

**This story is a bit meandering and unusual. To respond to a review that asked if there is romance... Hmmm. Is it plausible to have a story about Erik & Christine without romance? No. In my opinion. So there is something on the distant horizon, but of course, this is not a fluff-fest novel, so it won't exactly be an easy romance to conjure up, believe me. I think I've said too much... Either way, I hope you are enjoying it. LC**


	6. The Convincer

My neck hurt like hell.

Really hurt.

That wrenching sort of muscular agony you get when you wake up after sleeping in a strange position.

But that's you just you isn't it? I'm guessing how you feel and what your perceptions of pain are. Let's face facts here; yours is going to be very different to mine.

Sleeping uncomfortably was something I was so used to, that I hardly noticed it after a while. This meant that if I ended up in pain, proper pain, real pain, then there genuinely had to be something very wrong.

That was the pain I felt.

My eyes shot open the moment my groggy mind stabbed me awake with the pain in my neck, and it was at that moment that I noticed my back ached too.

It was odd, because there was red satin in front of my eyes. It took me a moment to realise that I was looking down at my torso from the position where I had been slumped. I looked up, ignoring the aches in my body and took in my new surroundings.

I was back indoors again and was sat, no , slumped in a high backed wooden chair, my arms hanging over the arm rests as though I was some sort of scarecrow made of nothing but straw.

I was sat at the head of a table, a long bright black table that shone as though it had been polished continually for decades.

At the other end of the table was Weirdo, wearing that mask and an evening suit. The sort my father would wear when he went to one of those official functions in the city with my perfectly coiffured step mother.

The room was quite unusually well lit, with no strange coloured flames in sight.

It was very grand and intricately decorated with vast columns that slithered up the walls and then swept out over the ceilings in gold-leaved branches. The walls where as equally splendid and beautiful, with alcoves gracefully displaying rare, precious objects and sumptuous crimson wall paper covering every other piece of wall.

Portraits of beautiful men and women from long ago hung here and there, making me remember a school trip to a castle museum I had been on, back when I was very young and still in England.

The fireplace here had a normal, orangey-yellow fire and the mantle stood tall and imposing above it, with carvings of cherubim and seraphim floating along its facade.

Notice what I've done there? I've described that room in more detail than perhaps the rest and used words like 'sumptuous' and 'beautiful'. This is because, out of the entire house, I prefer this room more than any other.

Of course the only down side is, if I'm in there, I have to be there with _him._

I shuffled myself upright, glancing down now at my body and the material that had first caught my attention. I had been taken out of my old clothes that I had worn since the hospital and put into a ridiculous red satin dress.

I'd also been scrubbed clean (I reeked of fresh soap and perfume) and my skin felt fresh and healthy.

I wanted to scream with rage.

My hair had been intricately folded and weaved on top of my head and in my ears, I could feel tiny, but heavy, little droplet earrings.

Want to hear something funny? I didn't have pierced ears until then.

The sleeves of my gown came to just above my elbow, where a rustling flow of black lace tumbled down in layers towards my wrists. I mention this, because I tried to bend my arms and they restricted me, probably adding more to the anger I already felt welling up inside me.

All the time I'm sat there, taking all this in, Weirdo is sat as still as his damn dummy, watching me.

I could see the flash and glimmer of his eyes as they flicked from one part of me to the other.

"So" I began "what _the hell_ are you playing at?" I growled at him, leering forwards.

Or as far forward as I could move in a stupid bloody corset.

I cursed silently when I realised he'd even changed my under wear!

Hang on, let me guess, you're sat there cynically thinking, hey, shouldn't she be bothered that someone has clearly gotten her naked, washed her, put new underwear on her and dressed her?

No. I wasn't bothered. Just wanted to clear that up for you so you're not fretting.

He wouldn't have been the first man to help himself to my body against my wishes, put it that way.

"Darling" he spoke with infuriating calm and ease "you needed to get out of those terrible clothes and you had not bathed for so long. I felt it best that my servants tended to you whilst you slept, so as to not disturb you. Please also forgive me Christine for doing this. I do not believe you would care for yourself of your own volition and would have fought them".

He leant back in his chair again, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepling his fingers, studying me.

He looked like a damn Bond villain. I remember thinking at the time that all he needed was a white cat and a monocle and he'd be able to audition for a part in the next film.

That of course made me laugh out loud. I laughed at him, his melodrama, this whole set up – the situation I was in. Everything.

He cocked his head to one side, as if looking at me from a different position would help him understand what was going on.

"You are ridiculous" I chuckled, getting my breath back.

"I am pleased I have managed to somehow amuse you my love" he said in a low, almost sarcastic voice.

"Sorry, Weirdo, am I meant to be afraid or something? Am I meant to have been terrified before on the shore of that lake? With all that noise? I don't believe in monsters. No, scratch that, I do. Except they don't have tentacles or sharp teeth, they are people. That was all just illusion and Dolby Surround Sound. Nice job too. How long did that take you on your lap top? Ten minutes? Nice job. Your wasted living in a dungeon, you should work in the theatre".

My speech over, I slumped back into my seat and rested my restricted arms on my arm rests.

"I did used to _work_ in a theatre, a long time ago" he said evenly, his tone prickly.

"What happened, they sack you?" I grinned wickedly.

"Not quite. I left. You came with me. You had promised to be my living wife and we were happy. We were taking care of the boy, the boy you had a little fancy for. In the end I let you go away with him, I loved you too much to see you unhappy. You promised me that you would return to me one day and bury me. I believe you did".

I took in what he said and starting sniggering.

"You are Christine Daaé" he said quickly, his voice edged with fury now "and you have come back to me".

"Bugger off" I scoffed.

"No. You will listen to me now young lady" he said pointedly.

I shot to my feet at this point.

"Don't you _ever_ talk to me like that!" I raged "you kidnapped me and now you expect me to sit here whilst you indulge in your little delusion? You need to be locked up in a funny farm mate".

He gripped the arms of his chair and I could hear his breathing getting harsh from beneath his mask.

Good, I thought, he's going to get into a murderous frenzy now and get the hell on with it.

About time.

But no, it wasn't my lucky day.

"Do you know what made those noises outside? No? Let me tell you. They were the dead. Take that or leave that as a satisfactory explanation, I care not, but it is the truth. This house is a marker on the lake that divides the worlds of the living and the dead. You are safe whilst you are here, but out on that lake, terrible, terrible things take place. All those voices, all those people begging for one more chance" he sighed.

"How many do you believe get heard? Take into account how many people die each day, how many of those do you believe get heard and granted another chance?"

I could see his shiny eyes blazing from under his mask.

"Dunno" I said, disinterestedly.

"I have only ever come across one example, _ever_." He breathed, "Me".

"Right, so let me get this straight. You're saying that the lake outside is where the dead are taken over to the _other-side?" _I said, waggling my fingers and adopting a scary voice like some bad fifties b-movie.

"And you are therefore _dead_ and have been given a chance to live again? Am I right there?"

He nodded, the fingers steepled again, he was back into Bond-Villain mode.

"I see" I said "and you expect me to believe that?"

He nodded again.

"And I fit into all of this by – what? Being some sort of reincarnation of someone you knew a hundred years ago? Who _just_ so happens to look like me?"

Another nod.

"Yes, you are quite mad aren't you? I mean, I had hoped that when you and your friends robbed off with me, you were going to kill me. Do the job for me so to speak. Instead, I'm meant to remain here with you and help you relive the good old days of you and your dead girlfriend? No. Sorry. Exposition bit over. I'm outta here. Go find a runaway or something to lavish with your attention".

I shook my head emphatically at him.

There was a paused before he nodded quickly, as if suddenly understanding something.

"I'm sorry Christine. I'm just not getting through to you and I know it's my fault for not finding you sooner and letting that vile world you know affect you so much and damage your beautiful soul. I am truly sorry to do this, I remember the first time this happened only too well" he said sadly, leaving me puzzled and staring at him down the long table.

He reached up and behind his head, untying the strands of ribbon that held his mask to his face and when it fell slightly with the slackness, he caught it.

I was silently watching him, with utter interest. His psychosis was really intriguing me now and I was very eager to see what his 'convincer' was going to be.

I leaned forward in anticipation.

He pulled away the mask, revealing his face.

**A/N: Thank you for those who have reviewed and to the multitudes of you who have added this story to your alerts and favourites. I am very pleased to see that there are so many people following this story and that you are enjoying it. **

**Merci beaucoup.**


	7. Cracks Appearing

You know that horrible feeling of humiliation you get when someone you make fun of turns out to be disabled and you didn't know? You know, like, someone wearing shades or something, walks into you and you turn round and snap "are you BLIND!" to which they reply "Yes" and pull down the shades, revealing the sightless eyes.

That was how I felt when I saw his face.

I didn't pity him nor did I feel sorry for him; I was more annoyed with myself for being so harsh. Sure, it is unlike me to regret being mean to someone (the world I know had _never_ been kind to me).

It just felt like something clicked within me, like a sort of 'Aha' moment when everything becomes clearer.

His face was road-kill, there was no two ways about it.

Which, for me, was why he must be so absolutely bonkers. He'd lived with a face like that hadn't he? He'd no doubt made himself a recluse, fallen in with some fellow weirdo's and there you have it. The ingredients for a nutter. No wonder he was trying to make me believe I was his dead girlfriend.

I had the opposite problem, in a manner of speaking.

I had a very pretty face (apparently) and attracted hatred from everyone for it, hence why I wanted to live no longer.

Could it be that I had found someone who would understand?

No. I couldn't have cared less – so what if he had a sob-story that could no doubt rival my own? So what if he perhaps had an inkling of what I had gone through? It didn't make me drop a beat in my campaign to run away from life and towards death.

I'm rambling on now aren't I and you're getting bored already because I haven't stayed with the story and given you the full description of his terrible face.

Far be it for me to disappoint, I'll continue.

From the opposite end of the table I saw... I'm not even sure to this day how to describe it. It looked more terrible that first time, more than it has since. I just gawped, slack jawed and staring at him. I think he sensed he'd gotten through to me, because this repulsive smile stretched across his rotten flesh.

He stood slowly and reverently and within seconds had slipped to my side and was down on his knee's before me, his horrible face inches away from my own.

You must have guessed from what I've revealed so far that I am cynical, but it never occurred to me then to think that what I was looking at was stage craft or make up. I mean, well, how do you fake _not having a nose_?

He eyed me curiously for a few moments, his mouth still twisted in a terrible smile.

I should attempt a physical description shouldn't I? I am taking stock at the end of the day and detailing my foe is no doubt a very good move.

He had thick black hair, swept back beautifully, but where his hair line joined his forehead, there was a yellowy parchment type skin stretched down thinly over his face. The face itself was twisted here and there in what looked to be a painful mêlée of scrunched and taught flesh.

The long black holes that served as a nose were pulled back at the bridge in yellow rumples, making it appear like he had a snout. The lower lid of his left eye was pulled down showing pale pink veins below the eyeball.

His skin was impossible, as I think I might have already said. It was too tight and thin on his cheeks, making them gaunt and hollow. Then the flesh on his 'nose', as I've already said, was too ample and pulled back. The flesh over his right eye was white like a scar and dug in so deep it was as though the whiteness of it was the bone beneath instead.

His skin was cracked and ragged round the edges, especially around his mouth and the holes where his nose should have been. The colour of the ripped looking skin around his nasal cavity was a sort of blue-brown colour as though it was dying.

Then there were his eyes.

Those great gold orbs that looked like he'd had them transplanted from a wild animal. They looked too big for his head, but, in an odd way, fitted into his face.

His lips were long and black, with wrinkled, jagged skin all around them.

To be honest, he looked like he'd been decomposing for years.

This close up, without his mask, I could smell him.

He smelled like he'd been using large quantities of Formaldehyde and other mortician favoured preservatives. He looked like death and smelled like it too.

Then he spoke, curling back those lips and showing milky white teeth and a tongue of the same colour to match.

"So I see you are lost for words? What? No witty retort? No sarcastic remark? Since bringing you back here, I was forgetting what silence was without your diatribe slicing through me".

He glared at me with those huge, terrible eyes.

What reaction had he been expecting from me, other than me laughing at him? As I've said before, I'm a damaged person, not a bad one.

"Couldn't the Doctor's help you?" I said quietly, eyeing him sadly for a moment.

I heard his breath catch in his throat and his glare weaken.

"No" he said finally, but not evening blinking at me.

"Oh right. So, I guess you've been sent round the twist by having a face like that then, huh?"

He stayed quiet, observing me.

"Well, listen fella, I am very sad for you. They always say that there is always someone worse off than yourself and I think that you are probably it when it comes to me. But, listen, I'll level with you, I am not afraid or repelled by you. I am at the point in my short, pointless life, where I don't care to live much longer. So there is nothing you can throw at me that is going to scare me, hurt me or change me. I have had all the fear and horror most people experience in a life time thrown at me in under twenty years."

I sighed and leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes.

Perhaps I had gone about things the wrong way. Maybe if I had just told him where I was with things, then he would have just stopped messing about and gotten on with it. I think I had spent so much of my time on the farm being cutting and sarcastic as a defence mechanism, that I had forgotten that there were times when you could calmly reason with people.

I waited for him to respond, my head lying uncomfortably against the hard wooden back of my chair. It reminded me of what I was to face if I was put into a coffin and how _comfortable_ that felt.

He wound his long, cold, bony fingers around my forearm, prompting me to open my eyes and turn my head towards him.

"I understand" he said in a low voice "Do you expect me to harm you or kill you? I must therefore disappoint. It is one thing I cannot grant you. I realise all of this is so much for you to take in and I know that I cannot expect you to believe any of it. Nor can I expect that the damage done to you by the world you have come to know as home will make this easy".

His voice wrapped around me like a velvet cloak and I leaned a little further forwards.

"I will help you remember who you are, or rather, who you were" he continued, raising a hand to my face and cupping my cheek.

Something in my hardened, shell of a heart tugged as he said that and I clenched my teeth with disgust at myself. I must have been tired, yeah, that had to be what it was. Tiredness.

"I will become less repellent in time" he said, raising his tall, willowy frame to a standing position.

"First, we must dine" he said, striding back to his own seat and sitting down gently.

My mind was sifting through stacks of possible comebacks or remarks, but I couldn't think of anything. I had to regain the upper hand. Was it my pity (and don't forget tiredness) that he'd seen and seized on? I have never cared about another human being in my life, they had never given me cause to. Yet why this unfamiliar tug?

I hated how some nutter I knew nothing about had somehow meddled with my mind.

I think that was another of his tricks though.

Before I had more time to carry on thinking, I was interrupted.

The door at the far corner, near where he was sat, softly swung open, admitting a funeral party.

That is how I always think of them now, the 'Funeral Party'.

They are his servants, but they are dressed in deep mourning and always have every single inch of flesh covered by fabric to the point that you cannot see their hands or faces.

The first one to enter was short, wearing a long black dress that skimmed the floor. She wore thick black gloves and a wide brimmed black hat with a thick black veil hanging over the top of it, like a bee-keeper.

She was carrying a little silver plate with a silver lid on top, the type you saw at a classy restaurant.

A slightly taller and skinnier woman followed her, wearing almost the exact same outfit. This time, she wore a bonnet, like those you would find in a Jane Austin adaptation. The same thick black veil covered her features.

The shorter woman who had bustled in first, headed for me and placed the plate gently in front of me, then stood at the side of the table, as the taller woman placed her plate in front of Weirdo. She then joined the other woman and they stood side by side, heads down and hands clasped in front of them, as though they were at a grave side watching a coffin of a loved one being lowered. I stared at them, half expecting one of them to produce a white tissue so they could dab at the eyes.

Weirdo raised a hand without looking at them and they then turned and left the room.

"Who the hell are _they_?" I said, still watching the door.

He shrugged, "my staff".

"Where they involved in my kidnap?" I asked, leaning forwards and looking at him over the top of the silver dome in front of me.

"Why is that important Christine?" he snapped "Just eat your food".

He pulled off the lid and set it beside him, revealing what looked like bits of chicken (what I presumed to be chicken) and some other ominous looking substance that I took to be risotto.

I lifted mine, a scowl already firmly placed on my face as I had already stated that I was happy to starve if he didn't kill me.

Underneath I saw a bowl of pasta, covered in a sweet smelling tomato sauce. It was my favourite meal. I usually ate little and ate badly at the farm, but on the very, very rare occasions when the house was empty and I could sneak into the kitchen, I would always make this for myself.

There were lines drawn on all of the tubs and jars in the huge, modern kitchen there, so I would try and boost the contents back to the line again with water or paper. They usually found out about it though and I would be beaten so badly that I couldn't walk for a few days, but honestly, it was always worth it.

Things at home had been getting worse and worse, I can't deny that, even now.

I wanted to leave home and start up by myself, but it might have caused my father problems if the way I was treated got out to the public. So the best way of keeping me under his control had been to tell people I was disabled and I was being 'cared for'.

I was locked away when I was not working and I when I was made to sleep rough, he had a camera on me so I didn't run away.

That's not taking stock now is it? There's probably camera's on me right now isn't there? He's probably watching me.

But this is all on my terms now and I am not going to give in. Never.

I looked at the food and put the lid back over. The pain of living was outweighing the pain of hunger, so I defiantly slid the plate forwards and folded my arms.

"I will not say that the food is not to your liking, my dear, as I know it is. I think you are reverting to stubbornness. Very well. But you will be disappointed with your starvation campaign. Very disappointed".

I could tell he was mocking me, sat there with his terrible head, pushing bits of food round his plate with that crooked smile still lingering there.

"We'll see" I muttered, picking up the blunt knife from my place setting and tracing the white lines on the back of my left arm.

I think he was watching me, I can't tell. I've come to the conclusion that he is _always_ watching me and I can't say I'm bothered by it.

A few minutes later and we had both come to the conclusion that no-one was eating. He cleared his throat, making me look at him.

"What?" I said with annoyance.

"Christine, you should sleep, in a proper bed this time I think"

"Oh, how very thoughtful of you"

"Please do not be like this my love, it pains me to hear you so angry all of the time"

"Do I look bothered about what you like and dislike mate?"

He paused, blinking his crepe yellow eye lids.

"Some things I can see I am going to have to do without your cooperation. No matter. You will thank me in the end, darling. We have a very, very long time for things to –" he paused again, searching for the right words "work themselves out between us".

He stood and walked over to me again, plucking the knife out of my hand and setting it down on the table.

Did he punch me in the face? There was a swift sort of blast to it, to my forehead I think, making me blink.

The next time I opened them, which from my perspective, was the other side of the blink, I was in bed in the 'Gothic Bedroom' and he was in it with me.


	8. The Other Side of the Blink

I can't describe how I felt in those wild moments of initial consciousness.

I just knew that ever since Weirdo showed up in my life, I had been in and out of consciousness an awful lot. Waking up this time though, I found myself wide eyed and stunned; I was probably unable to articulate anything just then.

The other side of the blink found me on my back, looking up at a black velvet oblong of material immediately above me.

Instantly, I turned my head and took in the form of the sleeping Weirdo, lying on his side, facing me. He was thankfully on top of the covers and seemed utterly fast asleep. I had been changed, I noticed, as I snatched the thick black blankets up and glanced down at my apparel. I was like a doll – being picked up and played with, dressed and bathed, all against my will.

Now I was in some sort of short sleeved, white Victorian type nightdress. The sort you'd see your granny wearing. My hair was loose and billowed off to one side of me, smelling of expensive soap.

I stood up too quickly in the low candle light, unevenly stumbling backwards until I hit a wall. 

He didn't move.

He looked like the dead; he might as well sleep like it. 

I stood gasping for breath, a fresh wave of all too familiar fear throbbing through me. Waking up next to some scum bag without my prior knowledge or consent wasn't exactly unheard of in my life.  
I looked around the room quickly, not really taking in the details until I had identified something that could double as a handy weapon. A heavy black candlestick was the nearest thing that presented itself and I held it like a club, my eyes fixed on the sleeping form before me on the bed. 

He wore a red suit that looked far too extravagant and lavish to have been nightwear. Mind you, this is Weirdo, right? Nothing makes sense with this guy. Nothing. Not then, not now, not ever. 

My heart slowed down to a calm ba-bum rhythm and I relaxed slightly, but not my grip on the candlestick. 

Then it hit me. 

Why did I do that? Why react? Why try and defend myself? Hadn't I been brought here so this guy could kill me? Why did I try to protect my own life? This was a troubling thought and I put it down to instinct. A tiny piece of me wanted to survive, wanted to go on. But I put that down to being human. Those feelings where just feelings of survival, as base and as rudimentary as the need to breathe. I had always hoped that I would be able to overcome those urges to swim instead of sink and I berated myself once more for my overt stupidity. 

I put the candle stick down from where I had found it, with a deft thud. 

I dug my toes into the thick pile of the crimson carpet beneath my feet as I looked around the room.  
I'm big on describing the rooms aren't I? Gotta keep you interested somehow haven't I and I am taking stock, regrouping before the next battle. 

God, please, I hope the next one is the end. 

So yes, I'm stood there, Weirdo in the bed sleeping and I'm at a loose end. 

The room was grand and on such a scale, it bewilders me even now. The roof reached up like a cathedral with buttresses linking together in points in the ceiling. It was a bare, grey stone, making it appear ancient. 

A black metal chandelier hung down from the centre of that vast ceiling and hung about ten feet from the floor. It was intricately folded and bent to create the appearance of a tangled tree, with droplets of blood red crystal hanging from various branches, as though it was crying blood.  
It was unlit, but the few candles that burnt in similar looking wall arrangements made it clear enough to see. 

A fire place loomed to the right of my position; just as imposing as the ceiling. 

Black marble with swirls of grey stretched imposingly up above my head to its mantle piece, which was the resting place of a huge clock. I moved quietly over to the mantle, intrigued to view the clock and for the first time in a while, get an idea of what time it was. Since my arrival, I was aware hours had passed, but how many? Days? I couldn't tell. 

As I stood in front of the hearth, the first fireplace I had seen since I arrived without a fire in the grate, I looked up expectantly at the clock, squinting my eyes through the gloom to see its face.  
It had no damn hands! Why have a clock with no hands? I stared at it in disbelief at first and then annoyance. Weirdo was honestly insane if he kept a clock with no way of telling the time. The stylised font bore down at me from its position above my head, and I glowered back at it. 

I looked back at the bed to see if Weirdo had moved, but he hadn't. He was lying on his side, his eyes still shut. 

The bed itself was a grand four-poster affair, all black and draped in crimson. 

It gave me the impression that this was every Goth's dream come true. Teenagers everywhere with dark problems would love this place. I thought I had emotional problems as a teenager, but I never had the overwhelming urge to dress in black, don a corset and pierce everything. Personally, during my agonisingly miserable teens, all I wanted to wear was a shroud and my ambition had not stopped. 

I ventured over into the more shadow drenched corners of the room and discovered more anomalies, from a pipe organ and a rainforests worth of ancient looking sheet music, to an empty fish tank, filled with an ominous green substance. 

I frowned. 

This was a game I had little control over. All he had to do to render me unconscious was, well, I'm not sure. He sat across from me the time before last and I fell asleep. Last time he sort of moved his hand quickly towards my face. Either way, I was fairly helpless. 

That angered me more. I remember that being the beginning of the ravenous, consuming anger that was boiling up in me. 

How dare he steal me away from my own silent abyss? How dare he stop me from getting my own, final, happy ending? Morbid as it was, I wanted to be rid of this terrible world. Now, some lunatic got his funeral-going mates to nab off with me in broad daylight so he can pretend I am his long dead girlfriend. 

I was not impressed. 

"Get up!" I yelled over to him as soon as I grew bored of the latest room. 

He didn't get up, just rolled onto his back. 

"Oh fine, don't you bloody worry about me!" I snarled as I stomped up towards his side of the bed, snatching up one of his long, willowy arms and dragging him with as much force as I could muster, towards the edge on the bed. 

This time he did respond, luckily for him, before he hit the deck. 

He shifted his body around until he was standing up right and facing me. He was probably a clear foot taller, especially as he drew himself to his full height. 

I narrowed my eyes at him, not afraid to get up into that terrible face of his. 

He looked down into my eyes and narrowed them too, before yanking his arm away from mine. 

"Christine, are you well?" he said, with such gentleness and concern, that it rocked me for a moment. I shook my head, as if trying to steady my gaze and pushed my hair off my shoulders. 

"What do you think you are playing at sunshine?"

He cocked his head to one side, flashing me a look that gave me the impression that he thought I was the crazy one. 

"Dearest, I got you to bed, but you had nightmares. You were calling out in your sleep. I'm sorry for startling you. Is that what this is about?"

His voice was an intoxicating dream and I tried hard not to listen to it.

I searched my tired, confused and blurry mind for more words to fling at him, but found I did not possess the strength.

I sat down on the bed and he immediately copied me.

"Why won't you just murder me? Or euthanize me. I'm giving you permission to. I don't care to live anymore. Do I have to spell it out to you? Just please, get on with it" I said, feeling my usual fire and passion die with my words. I just wasn't sure back then if I even wanted to continue fighting and aggravating this guy.

"We haven't got off on the right foot, have we?" he said quietly, weaving his fingers together and resting them on his lap.

"Oh, do you think?" I said warily.

"I've been honest with you so far" he ventured, but keeping his tone soft and soothing, like a gentle breeze.

"It is unimaginable. Unbelievable. However, there are some things that are not going to happen or change. For example. No-one is coming to rescue you and there is no escape. You can fight me and hate me for as long as you like. I am a very, _very_ patient man. We are also to be married tomorrow."

His voice had ranged from tender, to matter-of-fact to threatening perfectly, all within the realms of a few words.

"Now you listen to me, _sunshine_" I growled "there simply ain't enough Rohypnol or other date-rape-drug-of-choice in the world that'll make me marry you. You are off your bleedin' rocker. Now for godsake, just frigging kill me or something. Cause let's face facts mate, it's the only way you're going to get me to the altar!"

"I'm not going to kill or hurt you. You also can't kill yourself here. You can try if you're that desperate, but like any starvation campaign, you'll be bitterly disappointed".

He sighed, like a breeze gently tousling a wind chime at the bottom of a garden.

I was wild with frustration and anguish, I stood up and crossed towards the wall directly in front of me. I crashed my head against it, over and over and over again, leaving a harsh red slash of blood against the rich flock wallpaper.

After a few more slams, I found myself wrenched off my feet and smashed firmly into a hard backed wooden chair. Whoever had lifted me up and deposited me there with so much force was invisible to me, but I could bet my backside it was Weirdo.

Before I could rise to my feet, fists clenched, black leather thongs seemed to spring out of the arms of the chair and wrap around my wrists and ankles, as though they were snakes that had done it of their own volition.

Sure enough, Weirdo emerged from behind me, a fierce look raging inside those glowing yellow eyes.

He grabbed my restricted arms, digging his nails deeply into the skin of my forearms and making the blood flow out of them in slick red-black channels.

I growled in pain and anger at him.

He was getting the idea now.

Finally.

"Is it to be war between us? Hmm? Is it? Do you want to hurt to prove you are alive my darling? Do you want me to suffer by watching you hurt yourself? Hmm? Well, _my darling, _you have genuinely forgotten that I have in fact seen you do this before. Except, that boy was the reason that ultimately drove you to do it then. Now, it is just me. Should I be flattered? Hmm?"

I could see his nauseating white tongue as he spoke, just centimetres away from my face and his odour of death hanging in the small space between us.

"I don't know what you are talking about you damn LOON!" I yelled back in his face, pushing my own face as far forwards into his as possible.

"Fine!" he roared back and tearing his nails free from my arms, taking several chunks of flesh with him.

"You will be my bride tomorrow night at midnight and for once, _for once_, you will be mine".

He turned sharply and headed towards the door, but as he reached it, he paused, his blood stained hands poised over the handle.

"Between now and then, my bride, you can suffer as much as you wish. My servants will _take care_ of you until I require you for the ceremony".

With that he let out the same sort of sinister chuckle that you associate with a cartoon villain, before heading out and slamming the door.

The dim lighting in the room began to lower until it was completely pitch black, and not for the first time since I came to this strange house on the lake, I felt really, genuinely, afraid.


	9. A Nightmare to Remember

In the blackness I could feel myself rise, still strapped in the chair. It wasn't like someone was lifting me, more like – I don't know, I was floating?

I knew all this by instinct, something I rely on endlessly now. The only part of me left worth a damn.

I was only wearing that ridiculous thin white nightie, so I easily noticed the change in the air around me as I rose. Then I was flipped, very slowly, backwards. I presume I was still hovering.

I could hear tiny scratching sounds coming from the distance, perhaps, if I had not changed direction too, the other side of the room? I had been facing the bed before the darkness descended; the door was in the corner near the head of the bed, so I found it odd that someone could have gotten in.

Saying that, Weirdo had probably stashed away his strange 'servants' or something in there somehow and I hadn't noticed during my cursory view of the surroundings earlier.

"This is boring" I said as confidently as I could, wriggling my wrists against the tight, cutting grasp of the thongs.

"You aren't going to scare me you know" I lied, now wriggling my ankles, but the thongs felt like they bit deeper into my flesh with each move I made.

I was not under the impression that whatever has now whispering really fast in that strange language from my abduction, was going to kill me. If Weirdo's temper was anything to go by, then he had no doubt arranged for the Funeral Party to do some pretty terrible things to me before I was to 'marry' him.

Over my dead body.

I wished.

The scratching noise was getting louder and longer with its scrapes and it was getting nearer to my head.

The air felt as though it was passing my face slightly, as though I was being raised higher and higher.

The whispering was getting closer and I could hear that it was coming from several voices, I thought perhaps three different ones, but I wasn't sure.

"Who are you?" I heard myself say, just before I yelled out in agony as the straps holding me to the chair tightened their unyielding grip on me.

"Let me go!" I yelped as the pain coursed through my system. My voice was an agonising squeak, instantly firing memories of my life on the farm into the front of my minds eye.

I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head to try and lose those terrible images. I couldn't deal with that and the situation I was in at the same time.

"Please!" I heard myself say again as I was sure the pain in my extremities was going to result in me losing my limbs.

"Please" I heard a possibly female voice copy.

Then another uttered it.

Then another.

Followed by muffled giggling, all coming from somewhere above my head.

I let out a yell of world-ending agony as stars of pain burst behind my eyes.

Then a heavy, masculine laugh rang forth, just over my head.

Then the muffled giggling grew louder and joined in with it, all mocking me as I squirmed and yelled in abject pain.

I could, somewhere on the outer edges of consciousness, register that I was moving. I think it was upward, but I couldn't tell, until I fell.

I was in so much pain, that my brain couldn't register the horror of falling whilst my limbs were being slowly chopped off.

I felt myself smash into the floor, back first, still attached to the chair. My head cracked against the back of the chair which in turn had connected with the floor.

I felt myself slump sideways onto the floor, the thongs no doubt being disturbed by the impact.

I writhed on my side, against a cold, stone floor. I lay there, like a garden worm in a curious child's hand, struggling to free my mind of pain and fear.

There was sniggering coming from above me now, as if those four voices where stood over me, mocking me. I winced in pain, into the blackness around me, wide-eyed and searching for something to latch onto, some form of hope and relief.

Then more incomprehensible whispering, the male voice joining in, but it didn't sound like Weirdo's voice. Typical, I thought, even then in all that horror, that he had no doubt given an order but been too much of a damn coward to do it himself.

Just like my father.

"I just want to die" I sobbed, "please just kill me. End my suffering, please".

I am disgusted with myself now, if I am honest, I shouldn't have given in.

This made the sniggering turn into cackles and guffaws that stabbed my ear drums viciously.

It moved away though, as though fading into the distance, like someone had faded it out on a recording.

A prickle of hazy green light began to emanate from before my eyes, like a dot, that slowly grew.

I thought at first that I was in fact dead and this was the beginning of the afterlife, the one I didn't believe in.

The dot increased in size to revel not a light source, but a scene.

I'm sure how to describe it, like so many things that have happened here. How the hell do you describe all of this craziness? It defies logic and it defies reason, yet I can only tell you what I saw.

The green light that was revealing blurry shapes and objects that I could not define, grew so large in mass and so rich in intensity, that I eventually became immersed in it. The light was like a bright green light at first, but as soon as it gobbled me up and stuck me in the middle of it, it faded slightly to reveal a darker, but still dark green tinged environment.

I was lying on a cold stone floor, the slabs long and wide, but the mortar between them was chipped or missing. I could make out what looked like wooden benches, stretching out ahead of me towards some steps, which appeared to be covered in something thick and volumous, perhaps like foliage.

I groaned and grunted as I lay slavering on the floor, my cheek now hurting with supporting my head against the stone.

My voice echoed into a shrill, animalistic noise that bounced off walls I could not see.

Then there were hands, as quick as a blink, yanking me to my feet. My head lolled down to see at least two sets of black gloved hands gripping my arms.

I moved my head to the side and caught a glimpse of the member of the Funeral Party who had served me dinner earlier.

I had no strength in my legs, so when I deposited onto them, I simply dropped to the floor like a rag doll. I wrenched myself forwards onto my knees and began to vomit uncontrollably. Having not eaten, all that came up was stomach lining and some stomach acid, burning my throat and leaving a vicious taste in my mouth.

"Get her up" came a bark of a command from ahead of me and I was instantly dragged to my feet once more and held there in the vice-like grip of the Funeral Party.

The same voice, not belonging to anyone I had heard so far during my time in Weirdo's realm, now muttered something like "are we ready to proceed?" or "is she ready to proceed?"

My drooping head lifted with what little strength I could conjure up and I looked around me, trying to understand this new situation.

I was in a chapel, that much was certain, but it was in part ruin.

The rows of benches I had seen at first, where rotten and had mostly fallen off their supports. The ceiling was almost identical to the gothic bedroom I had been in. There were windows either side of the space I was in, which turned out to be the aisle, but beyond the benches. They were glassless and their stone fixings were eroded.

Ahead, loomed the altar at the top of half a dozen steps, all overgrown as I had first thought. The great window behind it was in an equally dilapidated state to the ones flanking the entire building.

Stood on the next to bottom step was a robed priest, who looked at ancient as the building in which he stood. He stood, book in hand, staring at me through the uneasy gloom. To his left and my right, stood Weirdo, who was staring at me also. He wore a black frock coat that came to his knees and a white wing collared shirt poked out of the top of it.

The priest glanced to Weirdo "it is midnight my lord, shall we start?"

Weirdo did not take his eyes from me, but grunted his affirmation.

It was then that the hands let go of me and I found myself, somehow standing upright.

I looked down properly this time and, to my sincere surprise, I had been changed once more into a beautiful white bridal gown. The collar went to my throat and the sleeves down to my wrists, but this did not reassure me that my dignity had been maintained.

My head spun. How had they managed it? How? Surely I would have felt it! I was conscious the entire time!

I closed my eyes, unable to replay things clearly in my head.

It took me a moment or two to realise I was moving, but this time, not under the steam of anyone but my own body. My feet moved forward of their own accord and dragged the rest of, unsteadily to the front, stopping next to Weirdo and in front of the ancient Father and his crumbling book.

The Priest made the sign of the cross, uttering words in Latin and far too quickly for me to guess, especially in my dazed state, or to comprehend. I understood the "I do" bit as Weirdo said his first, before me. When the elderly Priest paused and looked meaningfully at me, I kept my mouth shut, my head spinning still and my body weak with pain.

I was sharply brought back to reality when Weirdo suddenly snatched my right hand and stabbed his razor sharp nails into it, again, managing to bring blood oozing to the surface. I yelled out, dropping to my feet, sobbing.

"Say 'I do' Christine and this all stops, this all goes away. Everything changes." I heard Weirdo say softly in my ear, but when I looked up, he hadn't budged, but still held my hand, I vicious look in his eyes.

"I-I d-do" I heard myself say, that survival part of me managing to muscle its way to the front of my debilitated mind.

Weirdo removed his nails from my bloodied skin and instead, gently lifted me to my feet, keeping his arms around my waist to keep me standing.

The Priest finished, making the sign of the cross once more and nodding at Weirdo, before he stepped off to one side and shuffled off, his book closed and his work done.

Weirdo turned me round in his arms, very gently, until I was facing him.

"I hate you" I whispered, but it was all I could muster.

"I know" he whispered softly back, removing his blood stained right hand from my waist and gently caressing my cheek. I could smell the irony odour of my blood on his digits as they slid over my cheekbone.

The look in his magnificent eyes was warm and yielding.

I think I knew deep down what was going to happen next, but at that point I just quite simply, didn't have any strength left in me but to comply.

He brought his black lips towards mine, making me automatically go stiff and squeeze my eyes shut, yet, the odd thing (ha, what a stupid thing to say, 'the odd thing', like everything wasn't frigging odd to begin with), was that as his face pressed against mine for the inevitable kiss, it didn't feel like what I expected it to.

It sounds bonkers, I know, but I have to describe this.

You would expect him to smell of that deathly scent, right? That his lips were vile and bone dry and thin. That his lack of nose was a bit of a turn off to say the least?

Instead it was a bit like this.

His lips touched mine, but they were warm and full. His scent was like something that was built into you to make you instantly recognise and go weak at. His nose – this is the oddest part, was _there_. I felt it touch my cheek as his lips connected with mine.

I wanted to open my eyes to be sure, but something inside my messed up mind told me not to.

He slid his right hand to the back of my head and up until the tangle of blonde hair that lived there. I raised my hands to his face, but instead of finding dry, dead skin stretched across a skull, I found myself touching warm, real flesh. My fingers felt his strong jaw, then over his cheeks which were full, moved to his eyes, connecting with thick eyebrows and then a soft forehead.

It wasn't him. But it _was_ him.

I can't describe it. No words. No words. I just don't understand it.

All the while our lips are touching, until his pressed harder against mine, slipping his tongue into my mouth.

I feel ill now admitting this to you, but I responded. I responded fervently and I have no idea why.

I pressed my broken frame against him and he tightened his grip on me in reply. I raked my fingers forcefully through his hair as we devoured each other. I rubbed this strange 'new' face and breathed in lung fulls of his enticing scent.

Reason seemed imprisoned womewhere at the back of my mind, but it hammered away telling me that what I was feeling and experiencing was just a hallucination, but I was too dazed and lost to respond.

I moaned into his mouth as I felt my body begin to ache for him to take this further, a sensation I had certainly never felt in my entire life. I had never _wanted_ anyone before. This was utterly new to me.

He pulled away breathlessly, nipping at my bottom lip and panting.

"Don't – don't open your eyes Christine" he managed.

He was damn right, I didn't want to shatter the illusion of snogging the face off someone who _felt_ as handsome as that.

I could feel myself start to come down from that place of elation and the fog in my head began to clear. Still, despite the fire and the passion returning to my blood, I did not open my eyes.

"It can't be midnight already" I said as I tried to catch my breath, still wrapped in his embrace.

"It is and we are married"

I felt a sobering jolt to my being – I was frigging married to this madman now? What's next? We re-enact the dates he and his dead girlfriend went on?

My mind boiled but then I found it instantly dispersed by the feeling of his lips against mine again.

I plunged my tongue into his mouth this time and we erupted into an almost violent passion as I took my rage and my frustration out on his mouth. He certainly had no qualms and responded with just as much vigour.

The ache below my navel was raw and harsh and wild now to the point where I was tugging at his clothes.

What was going on! I couldn't control myself, I just could not explain it, even now, sometime afterwards where I am certainly able to look back with anger and a clearer mind, I still wonder why.

He lifted me up, our mouths still connected and I felt myself moved once more, but the blackness was of my own making, with my eyes tight shut.

I felt myself lowered onto something soft, a bed it turned out and I felt him now in front of me, over me. I reached up with trembling hands to try and find the buttons to his shirt. He however, went for the more straight forward approach of just ripping my dress off my body, sending the buttons pinging and skittering about.

I was panting hard now with utter expectation. I wanted him. I wanted him too badly to wait for clothes to come off and I wanted him now.

"Please now, oh please now" I begged from beneath him.

"Christine" he rasped, his voice clearly barely controlled "are you sure you want this?"

I responded by tugging wilding at his trousers and writhing my hips upwards to meet his. I had never felt like that _ever_. Never, ever. I feel weird and somehow voyeuristic now, recounting it to you.

I don't feel bad, or wrong or used. If anything, I think he got used pretty well that night, by me.

After a few awkward moments of ripping off and removing clothing, we gave into what I can only describe as utter carnal lust. We threw each other about the bed, me relying on my other senses as I remained blind, especially at his constant plea's that I remained that way.

The only yelling I did for the rest of that night was when I experienced several utterly stunning climaxes.

Too graphic for you? I think I left the gory bits out. I didn't 'Mills and Boon' you did I? Bet you're a bit shocked though aren't you? I've not exactly given you reason to even consider the fact that Weirdo and I had at any point, shockingly mind-blowing sex together.

Another thing - turns out, his name isn't 'Weirdo'. Bet you're as surprised as I am, right?

During the throws of our 'wedding night', I asked him for his name, to which he replied "Erik, my name is Erik and I am yours forever".

As soon as we had utterly spent each other's energy reserves and collapsed into each other's arms, I toyed with the idea of opening my eyes and looking him.

He had begged me not to, as if opening them would reveal the decaying corpse who I had first met, with its noseless, twisted face and its thin, bony body.

The man I lay with was strong and muscly, his body toned and perfectly formed. His face was flawless, from what I could feel and was archetypal of what constituted as handsome. Put it this way, I could have been feeling the face of Leonardo's 'David', it was that perfect.

The fingers that were now caressing my flesh, drawing invisible patterns on my skin, were long, but manly, the nails very short and not remotely capable of stabbing me.

Yet the voice was identical. It was the same all the way through.

Out of all the weird, backwards and strange trickery I'd experienced since this freak turned up, magicking himself into some sort of god of love was certainly the craziest. Either that, or he had doped me up somehow and it was a seriously amazing drug.

But then, I thought, I had to know, I have to know who it was that created that hunger inside my body and turned me into this frenzied person I had no idea lived inside me.

I turned towards him, listening to his still ragged breathing and opened my eyes.


	10. It Begins

It's like you can predict it now can't you.

He wasn't there, and I bet you're not even surprised are you?

No, and guess where I was? Guessed? The gothic bedroom with all its blacks and reds booming around and down on me. Once again I was attired in a granny type nightie and the blankets were up to my chin. How, I don't know. I don't know much.

Things happen in instants, you have to understand that with what is going on around here. It defies logic and reason. There's no point sitting there in your ivory tower, picking up on plot holes, if this is some sort of dodgy B-movie that I have magically found myself in, then it's a damnable crap one to say the least. I shoot and drop from scene to scene, dressed by a wardrobe department I have never seen at work, although it is pretty much going to be credited to the Funeral Party

So, not quite the wedding of the century was it? Oddly, I remember glancing down at my left hand, querying once more what my memory was telling me and hey-presto – there was a simple gold band resting on my finger.

So which bit was the dream then? The horror story wedding or the love story afterwards?

My body didn't feel exerted in anyway. I wasn't sweaty or breathless or, I don't know. Whatever it is you're meant to feel after consensual stuff.

I closed my eyes and slapped my hand against my forehead. Images from my life on that farm flooded into my head as if there had been a sudden monsoon of crap..

Faces, gritty, terrible ones. Men from the fields. Their filthy hands and their unshaven faces, all laughing whilst I suffered and cried.

I curled up into a ball, shutting my eyes and willing the memories away. I buried my head under the heavy blankets and tried to forget where I was and what had happened my entire life. I tried to imagine that I was dead, in my coffin and this was the end of everything that I had gone through.

I heard my name being uttered somewhere above me.

Weirdo was back.

Or was he the same as the guy I had - no, wait. He was literally only a dream to me.

Weirdo it is.

I peeled back the covers, as if I was a naughty teen who had been reading a comic under the covers with a torch.

He said my name again. There he was, looking like I wanted to feel – death. He was wearing the suit from the wedding. His head of death cocked to one side, observing me with a fire in those burning orbs of his.

"What?" I said sharply at him, harpooning him with a single word.

"I was simply concerned for your welfare my dearest. I trust you slept well?"

I sat up, pushing my hands into the soft mattress and feeling them complain from the exertion, reminding me of their injuries.

I winced, giving me enough guile to round on my captor.

"Ow. Oh yes, I forgot, you stabbed my hands with your finger nails to make me say 'I do' after disorientating me and trying to scare me. Well aren't you the big man? So the only way you can bag a wife is by scaring and injuring a woman? You even got your freaky mates to do the worst bits for you. Weirdo"

I kept my eyes narrowed and ensured the anger in my voice was obvious. I was peeved to say the least and he was going to get the full firm feel of it.

"Hmm" he said, as if I had just told him the sky was green.

"I didn't hurt you too much my dear and it's about time I got my way. I let you run off with Raoul last time, didn't I? Now it's my turn".

He came out with that random nonsense so matter of fact, it was as if he was telling me the time.

"Raoul?"

"Yes dearest" he replied in a honeyed tone that made me feel terribly uneasy "Raoul de Chagny".

"Raoul, sorry, what? Sounds like a South American porn star, mate. Never heard of him".

This earned me a hideous cackle from a throat long out of practice.

"Darling, you make Erik so exquisitely happy with your queer lexicon and lack of remembrances. It is no doubt for the best that you do not remember that foolish boy".

His terrible smile that turned my stomach, still played across his ghastly visage.

"Your name is definitely Erik then?" this was messed up.

The guy from my – I don't know what to call that entire experience, a dream? – said he was called Erik. There is no way on God's green Earth that I could have known that. There was something going on here.

"I already knew you were called Erik, before you said it then, but I thought it was a dream".

He approached the bed, his smile fading and his thin, ragged flesh contorted into an expression akin to concern.

He perched himself on the edge of the bed, making me scurry to the other side. There was no way this freak was getting close to me on a bed with my knowledge.

"Go on" he urged, his voice now a velvet purr.

"You kissed me at the end of the ceremony, right?"

Erik nodded to the affirmative.

"Yes dear and instantly you passed out. A sign of a fair and chaste bride, no doubt."

"Yeah, whatever mate. Whatever yanks your chain. Anyway, you say I fainted?"

He cleared his throat and his mouth tightened for a moment, but the calm look in those huge golden eyes failed for a moment. "You fainted the instant my terrible lips touched your full, pink lips. Erik has dreamt of this moment for a very, _very _long time".

"I bet you have buddy" I raised my eyebrows, this guy was now referring to himself in the third person. Crikey, I really had scored high here in the nutter stakes hadn't I?

"Well, I don't remember that bit, but I remember – I just don't know how to say this. Urgh. I mean, it's not like anything makes sense round here does it?" I took a deep breath and carried on.

"I don't remember fainting, I in fact, remember kissing – I'm not sure who. I can't say you because this dude had a nose. Nor did he smell of embalming fluid, or fell weird and bony. We didn't stop at kissing either. I asked for his name and he said it was Erik. He also told me, no, insisted that I did not open my eyes. I turned to look and bam, here I am, back in Morticia Addams' boudoir with you lurking about".

I looked at his decaying face, searching it for answers, wondering if he would just look at me with distinct confusion or incredulity.

"Ah yes" he said "that".

His tone sounded like I had just reminded him of something funny he did last Tuesday instead of a strange event that may or may not have occurred in my imagination.

"That was just a side effect. Let me explain my dear. You were once Christine Daae, the diva of the Paris opera! My protégé, my pupil, my angel. As you can see by the way I look, society was not very welcoming towards me so spent my days living eclectically and in seclusion. I had convinced you I was an angel so I could teach you to sing, but as well as that" he sighed, a sigh that you imagine an angel had "I fell in love with you".

"It turned me into an obsessed mad man. I _burned_ for you. You, however, bestowed your angelic affections on another, leaving no room for poor Erik. Suffice to say, you broke my heart. I died three weeks after you ran off with that Raoul chap. As I lay there dying, a worthless heap of a man in a pitch black pit, I begged God with my last breath that if I could not have you in this life, that I could have you in the next."

I patiently sat there within the covers of the bed whilst he blurted all this out, a wistful look in his animal-like eyes. I had to hear the whole delusion, so I was quiet happy to let him continue.

"I closed my eyes and gave up my soul to the almighty to do as he felt fit, only to awaken in this very room. My mission clear in my head, as if a message had been planted there. I was to be the keeper of this underground transition point, this house, which was a simple marker between the worlds of the living and the dead. I was to wait until you were ready to come here, to me".

He paused, as if waiting for me to reply or ask a question. It was a pretty impressive tale of randomness and I can't help think to this day if he and his funeral favouring buddies sat up at night thinking it up and adding to it.

"I was informed over the years, that you had been granted another chance at life, but that life would lead you here, to me. You would be so unhappy that your path would lead you to me, and that you would give yourself to me, without any thoughts of others. For my benefit, you would look the same and even have the same name! Oh Christine! I had wondered for years how you would come to me and what form you would take! Here you are, alas, a great deal thinner and unhappier, but still _mine_".

He looked at me with undisguised adoration, so much so, that I unconsciously dragged the covers up higher.

"I'm meant to believe that bag of crap am I?" I scoffed, shaking my head slowly.

"You have clearly escaped from some sort of mental institution sunshine. Listen, I'm sorry that you have had issues with your face and that, but, you know, if the plastic surgeons can't help, then the bloody psychiatrists can –"

"Be quiet, ignorant child!" he suddenly yelled, his voice slicing through me so deeply that it robbed my lungs of air.

"Just-" he closed his eyes and took in a calming breath "Sshh".

I did as he said, he was probably being told to by the voices in his head.

"So, I'm meant to be a long dead opera singer that has conveniently been reincarnated to not only look the same, but have the same name? I've been purposely given a damn awful life, to make coming to you seem like a better option? You kidnapped me, moron. I did not come to you. Besides, am I really meant to buy any of this? I mean, think about it from my point of view. If you were me, would you buy into this?"

I still found myself edging further and further away from him on the bed, all the while, my brain tugged at my nagging doubts and my heart begged to stop.

"I understand Christine and you are indeed correct. You are an intelligent, beautiful young woman with such a strong spirit, it is impossible for me to expect you to believe what I had said to you. However, you are starting to. That experience you had, the kiss at our wedding. That is part of this. You were with someone that was me, but wasn't me". He looked away, towards the door "not yet, anyway" he mumbled to himself.

This made me knot my brow in confusion. What was he saying? It was true and it was him, but it wasn't? What the hell?

He stood slowly and smoothed the creases out of his trousers as he rose.

"I would do anything for you Christine" he said earnestly.

"Apart from kidnap me"

"That was necessary"

"And stab me with your nails on two occasions"

"I do feel bad about that, please forgive me"

"No"

"Fine"

"If you'll do something'd for me, then let me go"

"No"

"Let me go outside. I mean properly outside, not on the shore of that weird lake".

"Perhaps. If you behave".

"Stop having your weird mates dress me and stop knocking me out".

"That is fair enough, I will grant you your own room, clothing and bathing facilities".

"How good of you. Don't put yourself out or anything."

"I will not dear. We will start the day with music in the morning. I wish to ascertain if you have been returned to me with your once exquisite voice".

"I can't sing, I promise you. Besides, what if I don't want to sing?"

He shrugged nonchalantly.

"Then you will feel pain worse than my nails digging into your flesh and you not get to be visited by Erik's better side in your vivid dreams. Not for a very long time".

"Say what?"

"Is there anything else?"

"Yes, I want a clock and a calendar. I want to know what day and time it is. I have no way of knowing the passing of time".

"Why ever would you need to know? You will be awoken by one of my servants, you will have breakfast in your room, you will bathe, change and join me in the music room. After lunch, you will join me in the library. After that, you will dine with me in the evening, we will retire to the parlour where I will play you a little Mozart and then you will retire for the night".

"Got it all worked out haven't you? You frigging nutter".

"You do not need to know the passing of time. I shall tell you what your days are and you will live by them".

"No".

"Fight and resist as much as you like. It will only be your blood that is spilled and my patience made thin. However, I suppose, I could help you keep track of how many days you spend here. There will of course be a lot of them."

A worrying glint sparkled in his eyes, as if a hideous thought had just passed through his brain, but it was twisted enough to make him grin with the pleasure of making it reality.

"I will leave you a gift in your new quarters that will assist you in keeping track of your time here". He madly tried to muffle a terrible giggle but it escaped through the cavern of his empty nose.

"Er, great. Looking forward to it" I said, giving him a decidedly perplexed look. He was getting loonier by the minute. Each time I spoke to him, he seemed more and more off his rocker.

What the hell had he meant by 'Erik's better side'? What? Was that dream after the wedding real? I didn't understand or get any of it. I had to know more about my supposed former life.

So I decided I was going to play his game.

All I had left was the _game._


	11. The Bucket

He led me out of the gothic bedroom and into a pitch black corridor. I felt the air sail past my flesh and instantly noted the earthy smell of mud and grass, the sort you get after rain.

I kept his barely visible shape in close proximity, he of course wielding the only source of light: a thick white altar candle.

I could not make out the interior of this new corridor. Can't make out most of this stupid bloody nightmare hole. It's like a living entity this house. It moves and rearranges itself, like a great octopus manoeuvring its many tentacles.

He stopped suddenly and I was a hair's breadth away from walking straight into him.

I noticed a door to my left, which he quickly opened and I shuffled in after him.

By the time I made it over the threshold my strange new 'husband' had been gobbled up by the cold darkness in the room, the candle no doubt extinguished. I was also plunged into a dense darkness and stood by, like an idiot, waiting him to indulge me with a bit of light.

Now, things are different. I can see in the dark, well, that's not quite true. The nature of this war is that I can't literally see, but hear, smell and feel. That's how I make my way through. I'm like a mole.

Light fuzzed into view, in the same way as the sun would dawn on a misty morning.

I took in the room as the wall lights slowly gained in brightness and the area became more apparent.

This was going to be my room, or my base as I like to think of it as.

It was dressed almost entirely in black; I felt like I was in a Victorian melodrama and the main character was about to lie expiring on their death bed.

"Oh yes, very cheerful" I remarked as I walked over to the thick dark wood posts of the four poster bed in the centre of the room.

I glanced about quickly, not wanting to take my eyes off him for too long.

He leaned against the wall by the head of the grand bed and folded his thin arms over his chest, narrowing those owlish eyes at me.

"You will be comfortable here" he snipped at me, as if trying to make it sound as though I was being ungrateful.

"So" I said, sitting down with a cushioned thump on the end of the bed, looking over the tall dresser a couple of feet away against the opposing wall.

"So tell me about my former life" I chimed, injecting as much enthusiasm into my voice as I could.

I had taken my eyes off him, but as the light increased in the room, I felt as though I was safer, that same dumb way a kid does with a night-light on in their bedroom.

There was an abyss of a pause, to the point where I even turned to face him. He stood still, looking at me with that grotesque face, with a look of intense scrutiny. I assumed that to be some way of method he employed to check if I was being sincere in my curiosity of having him on.

"You had the voice of an angel and the gentle spirit to match. You had a smile that could light up a room. You are quite similar now as to how you looked back then. But then, promises were made that some similarity to how you used to be were made".

Now he was straying into bonkers territory once again.

"I see" I said as sincerely as I could muster.

"So, my name is the same and physically I'm like this girl you had a thing for, is that right?"

He breathed heavily for a moment as he moved away from the wall and glided across the room to take up a position to better observe me.

"You have the same name, yes. I had to make that an absolute clause. My bride was going to be Christine Daaé. Physically, you are very similar. You are a touch taller and notably thinner. You have the same beautiful full lips and azure blue eyes. Your hands are the same. I remember your long, elegant fingers"

_I bet you do sunshine!_

"Right"

I wanted to make him feel like I was buying into his madness. He might let his guard down and then _bam_ I can kick him square in the love-spuds and do a runner.

Ha, how naïve of me.

"So, erm, this deal you made, in getting me back and all. Who did you make it with precisely?"

His arms were folded again, a sure sign of becoming defensive. A move I remember my father making every single time he came into my presence. His distaste for me was pungent, even when I was only a small child. I had wished on so many nights that he had just given me up into care or turned me out into a forest somewhere.

I must have let a few unchecked emotions cross my features, as Erik's stance softened and he uncrossed his arms and relaxing his look.

"I'm sorry darling, all this is a crazy and cumbersome muddle, is it not? So much has happened since you arrived here. I have been selfish. You are shocked and understandably repelling everything you have encountered here. Our wedding has also knocked you with its emotional impact"

I raised a dubious eyebrow.

"Perhaps after I have presented you with your quarters in full, you would like to retire?"

I nodded and allowed him to open a door to his left that led into a small but comfortable bathroom. He then led me to a huge ornately carved wardrobe, swinging open the doors with a grand flourish, exposing its contents to me.

Should I have been surprised by what I found in there?

Er, no.

Inside was a fantastic stock of costumes. Well, costumes to me, everyday stuff to him no doubt.

There were a prism of satin, silk, wool and cotton dresses, habits, cloaks and elaborate gowns, all hailing from the Victorian era.

"Do these garments please you, sweetheart?"

"How can I say this? I'm from the twenty-first century buddy. Not the nineteenth. I ain't dressing up in your weird get-up because it'll fit your fantasy and get you all excited."

"Then you shall join me at all of our daily engagements naked."

I wanted to laugh at him. Crikey, this guy was seriously living in la-la-land.

It was also obscenely hilarious that he delivered that line with such a dead-pan, matter of fact tone.

"Fine" I shrugged "I've got nothing to lose so naked it is".

My defiance was grating on him a bit, I could tell by the sharp sigh he exhaled.

"Now, you promised me a calendar" I said brightly, turning to face him with a triumphant smile plastered on my face.

This is where my smile failed and his touched at the edges of his black lipped mouth.

"Erik has not promised you anything of the sort"

"Now you are being schizophrenic as well as bi-polar. Listen son, I am making a lot of presumptions, all no doubt quite narrow minded and mean, on mental health, but you really need to get to a shrink asap".

I saw him visibly bristle at my suggestion.

"Well, who am I to deny my beautiful bride?"

I really hope he meant my suggestion about seeking psychiatric help, rather than the calendar, but I wasn't very confident.

I knotted my brow as he chuckled demonically to himself, clearly getting an inward joke that I wasn't privy to. He backed towards the door and exited through it, but I as I stood staring at it, he whipped open the door once again, remerging with a shiny tin bucket in one hand and a triumphant smile on his face.

"Darling, here is your time keeper". With that, he raised the bucket up by his head and smirked at me.

"Yes, I can see how you made that obvious link between calendars and buckets. Obvious. Clearly."

My sarcasm seemed to bounce off him as he turned towards the dresser and placed the bucket on its shiny surface.

"Sweetheart" he cooed at me in a sickly sweet tone "inside the bucket you will find a means by which you may record how many days you have spent with me. I will refill the contents of the bucket once a year has been completed."

He smiled, licking his chapped black lips with that horrible white tongue that lived inside his mouth. I had clearly been hallucinating when I thought I had been kissing him. It was obviously my subconscious trying to cope with the terror of being forcibly married by a Hammer-Horror leading character.

"I will bid you farewell and allow you to bathe and sleep a full, undisturbed night. My servants shall serve you breakfast in your room in the morning and then the rest of your day, of course, I have already explained to you. Now, you must excuse me dearest".

With that, he bowed deeply and left the room.

I could hear him cackling and sniggering as he disappeared down the corridor.

I went to the door and tried the knob, I think it went without saying that it was locked.

"Great" I groused, turning my attention to the strange bucket on the dresser.

I tentatively stepped towards it, standing on my tip-toes to look very cautiously over the rim.

Inside was something that made me throw my hand over my mouth as I felt the instant urge to vomit overcame me once more. I ran to my cheerful and clean bathroom, retching into the toilet bowl. I sat on the marble tiles until the shudders and gagging quelled.

"He is _sick_" I said out loud, to myself. Mind you, it wasn't as if that was a stunning revelation.

"Oh God, what the hell is this? Why am I here?" I wiped my damp brow with the palm of my hand and stood up shakily, going to the sink for some water to rinse out my mouth. I looked in the large mirror above it and into the face of a girl I knew, but couldn't fathom.

I had heavy dark circles round my eyes, my features were gaunt and sallow. I looked as dead as he was.

I padded back into the room and looked at the bucket.

Many questions surfaced, like, where the hell did he get them all from? Did he get them from corpses or kill people to get them? My head spun and my gut heaved once more. With nothing more to come out and still amazed that there was anything after the last time I hurled, I stumbled towards an obliging black velvet chaise and collapsed into it.

I kept my gaze fixed on the bucket.

How disturbed do you have to be to make someone marry you and then present them with a _bucket filled with severed human fingers_?


End file.
